


Blanket

by Severina



Category: Dark Harbor (1998)
Genre: Community: smallfandomfest, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-31
Updated: 2014-07-31
Packaged: 2018-02-11 03:42:56
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,034
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2052261
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Severina/pseuds/Severina
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He knows that he should turn around, go back to his cold, sterile bedroom and his cold, sterile wife.  He teeters on the precipice between desire and common sense, and as usual it is the boy that tips him over the edge.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Blanket

**Author's Note:**

> Written for LJ's smallfandomfest for the prompt, "possessive". Gapfiller for how the Young Man gets his blanket. :) (Apologies for the lameass title.)
> 
> * * *

David hesitates in the doorway, fingers clenching and unclenching around the blanket. The fire has burned down to a few smoldering embers during the night, and he shivers in his pajamas, his toes curling up and away from the cold floor. In the gloom the boy is nothing more than a white-robed bundle curled in on himself on the sofa. He must be freezing. The blanket is a courtesy.

Still, he lingers.

The silence is so deep that he can hear the ponderous ticking of the grandfather clock in the upstairs hall, imagines he can hear the slither of sheets as Alexis rolls over in their bed. He wants to cross to the boy, brush the sleep-tousled hair from his eyes, press his lips gently to the ghastly bruise that mars his perfect face. He holds his breath, tries to stem the fear that Alexis will waken when she realizes he is not beside her, push back the covers and stumble to the top of the stairs looking for him. Catch him. Ruin everything.

He knows that he should turn around, go back to his cold, sterile bedroom and his cold, sterile wife. He teeters on the precipice between desire and common sense, and as usual it is the boy that tips him over the edge.

"You shouldn't have come," the boy says.

David starts, jerking his gaze away from the sofa. The boy is standing by the large picture window, the robe abandoned behind him in a pile of fluffy white fleece, and David takes a small, slow step into the room, shakes his head and lifts the blanket. Supplicating, like a gift. Take what I can give you. Take me. "I thought you might be cold."

"No," the boy says. "You didn't."

When he approaches David can see the goose bumps on the bare skin of his arms, his chest. But the shiver that goes down David's spine has nothing to do with the nip in the autumn air, and everything to do with the way his young man's muscles move beneath his skin, with the way he bites at his bottom lip and shakes the hair out of his eyes as his gaze sweeps him, ridiculous old-man pajamas and hair askew and still the heat burns for him from the boy's eyes, warming and chilling him all at once.

He raises the blanket between them, but now he can't tell whether it's an offering or a shield. "Take it," he says. "You're freezing."

"You should go back upstairs," the boy says. "Your wife will miss you."

His breath is warm, so warm on David's skin. He smells of the coffee they sipped earlier by the fire, the cigarette that he would have rolled and smoked after David crept up to bed to lie stiff and unyielding at his wife's side. David hates the cigarettes, has told the boy all the statistics on how deadly they are, but he still finds himself getting half-hard whenever he passes someone on the street who smokes his young man's particular bargain blend. 

He is half-hard now.

He blinks, looks away from the boy's startling blue eyes. It is too easy to get lost in them, too easy to forget the plan. The boy is right – he shouldn't have come. He should go back upstairs. He should climb between those cold sheets and let Alexis cuddle into him and inwardly rejoice that it is the last time he'll have to feel her curl around him in the night. But then the boy reaches out for the blanket and their fingers touch and it is far too late for that. 

He expects the boy to toss the blanket behind him, but instead he shakes it out and gestures him closer so that he finds himself ducking his head as the boy wraps the blanket around his shoulders, heavy and warm. He tugs, lifts the blanket so that it drapes over his head. He stands immobile, fleece warmth at his back and his young man facing him and reaches a tentative hand to brush his fingers against the horrid bruise on the boy's cheekbone, courtesy of his closed fist. He winces more than the boy.

When the boy's hand pushes on his shoulder he goes willingly to his knees.

In the darkness beneath the blanket there is no Alexis, no house filled with pointless priceless baubles, no ticking clock, no plan. There is only his lips and his tongue, and the boy's fingers digging painfully into his shoulders. The arch of the boy's back and the whisper of his name.

The boy says nothing when he gets creakingly to his feet, when he removes the blanket and folds it and places it on the end of the sofa. Says nothing as he brushes a shaking hand through his hair and turns to go, back up the stairs to that cold bed. 

David takes two steps toward the staircase and then the boy is there, hand wrapped firmly around the nape of his neck and searching out the taste of himself on David's tongue, dipping his warm hand beneath the drawstring of his pathetic pajamas. David hears himself whimper into the boy's mouth, soft and pitiful and needy, and then those nimble fingers wrap around his dick and it only takes a couple of long, quick strokes to leave him weak and breathless. 

"Go back to bed, David," the boy rasps into his ear. 

David blinks, suddenly aware of the wind rattling against the windowpane, the ticking of the clock in the hall, his own stuttering breath. Suddenly aware that Alexis could have come downstairs at any moment and found them together. He loses himself whenever his young man is near. The boy is both a blessing and a curse.

He draws himself up, finds the David that brokers million dollar deals, the David whose chilly smile can stun the competition into silence and complaisance. The David that doesn't fall to pieces at the sight of smooth, firm young skin and a whiskey-rough voice. 

"Use the blanket," he says primly. "You'll get cold."

He can see the boy's answering smirk in his mind all the way up the stairs.


End file.
